Pages

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

You Meet a Woman on the Train Who Writes Dinosaur Erotica

The situation: mouth open, staring with horror at your smartphone.

The symptoms: fear; revulsion; quiet amusement.

You board the train from Reading to Penzance. Alas, there are people everywhere – in the aisles, in the vestibules, on laps… Then you spy a free seat next to a casually dressed, middle-aged lady. You imagine her companion must have nipped to the loo or buffet car, but decide to ask about the seat on the off chance that it’s free. The lady smiles and moves her handbag.

A few minutes later, you bond over fruit pastilles. She likes the green ones (freak) and you like every other flavour, which makes her the perfect sharing partner. Eventually, she tells you she’s an author.

“Me too!” you coo. “What sort of things do you write?”

“Fantasy. My main focus is dinosaurs,” she explains. “I like to play with reality and imagine a planet on which dinosaurs and humans live side by side.”

You’re excited by this idea. You know it requires a vast stretch of the imagination, but your mind starts to conjure potential scenarios. The lady passes you her business card; it’s an elegant affair: ivory with just her web address. You tell her you’re training to become a totally splendid hotshot author and give her a bookmark.

When the lady pops to the loo, you can’t resist looking up her work. However, when your phone finally loads the page, what should pop up but a CGI depiction of a hot blonde straddling a pterodactyl. You blink a few times. Did you really just see a human straddling a pterodactyl?

A review quote jumps out at you, ‘Probably the best human-pterodactyl erotica I’ve ever read.’

You find your mouth laughing but your brain whizzing, as you study the dinosaur spread wings-down on a grassy lawn. How would that even…

The lady returns and you see her in a whole new light. This isn’t your regular fantasy writer. You start to blush and hide your phone behind your back. Must not let her know I know about the huma-dactyl sex.

She looks at the highly suspicious arm reaching behind your back (why didn’t you do something less conspicuous?). “Were you looking up my books?”

“N-no…” you stutter.

At this point, you have three options:

1. You can admit that you were researching her writing and try to keep a straight face while you debate how dinosaurs and humans could possibly mate.

2. You can pretend that you weren’t looking up her book and carry on the conversation as if you’ve not just seen a pterodactyl beak attempting to caress a nipple.

3. You can get up and move to another part of the train. (Suddenly, it’s abundantly clear why your seat was the only empty seat in the whole carriage.)

Do not ask if she happens to have any signed paperbacks on her for sale. Very bad people like to snap photos on trains and then upload their stolen moments to stupid, privacy-invading websites called inane things like ‘Spotted – Boys Who Look Pervy on Trains’ for nasty people to snigger at. Nothing would bait a spotter more than noticing somebody fingering a book sporting an illustration of a T. Rex mounting a bikini-clad nymphomaniac.